WeissKreuz Special Gifts
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Aya's birthday. Aya moody, Yohji determined. A mysterious box and lots of ANGSTY thoughts... and more pleasant ones, too. A lesson in kimono thrown in for good measure, along with a haiku. And of course, Aya has to complicate everything.
1. Chapter 1 Dressing Up

**Special Gifts I – Dressing Up**  
(Special Gifts II – Dressing Down – to follow soon)

Thanks for everyone who read my stories and took the time to review. Hope you like this one – let me know what you think, folks. I have no beta reader, so if you pick up on something glaring, feel welcome to tell me so I can amend it.

Uh, the 'n' on my keyboard is iffy. Did some amendments. Thanks for those of you who reviewed this one. The follow up is in the making. Also, if you'd like my version of how Aya came to decide that Ran was dead for good, it is set out in 'Transformation'.

Cheers

Aabunai

**xxx**

Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-15/M. Shonen-Ai, I'd say, with lime tendencies. And they never watch their language, damn them, though Aya at least should know better. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.

**xxx**

A box.

Aya eyed it mistrustingly. Still tousled from sleep, he had crept from the tangled sheets to get some water and almost stumbled over the box at the foot end of the futon. Yohji's side of the bed was cold; he had most likely fallen asleep on the couch, with the television babbling away his nightmares that had returned with increasing frequency.

So what was this box about? Aya snorted softly to himself – he was not curious, merely cautious. Unlabelled boxes had to rouse suspicion, and it was only logical to check them out. So he went for a drink of water, and then settled cross-legged on the tatami to stare at the box a bit more.

The light that filtered through the bamboo blinds cast a dusky orange glow over the rough surface of the box. Woven reeds, rough and silky at the same time, with the aroma of the river still about them. Aya breathed it in deeply, his eyes narrowing as unwanted memories welled up and made him squirm. Summer days with his sister, laughing as they splashed each other with water...

He pressed his lips together in a hard line and shook his head. Those memories were Ran's. They had nothing to do with him.

He decided to poke the box with the tanto he had retrieved from its place underneath his pillow when he had gone for his drink. A soft rustling sound rose from the aromatic blades of reed as the tip of the blade of steel sunk slightly into the material. A sound like a sigh. Aya frowned and stabbed a bit more, poking the box around. A slight swish of something inside... This looked very much like one of Yohji's pranks for which Aya usually spared neither time nor humour because the man had yet some serious growing up to do.

The scent of ripe grass mingled with something sweeter still, and Aya's fine nose recognised the faint perfume of roses.

In spite of himself, he had to swallow hard for suddenly the air around him became too heavy to breathe, and his chest too hot inside. His mother had loved roses; she had used every available patch of space to plant them – containers on the balcony, a tiny roof garden, even behind their house, breaking the stark formality of the traditional garden his father preferred.

Wrong, he scolded himself, that was Ran. Ran again. And Ran had died a long time ago.

So what was this box doing here? He was getting truly cross. No, angry. He could feel resentment beginning to bubble deep within, swell and grow hotter, rise and suddenly surge with blinding force, blotting out-

The twisted reed strings fell off the box where Aya had slashed them with the tanto.

Welcome fury that blotted out the pain of memories uncalled for, unwanted, and not his. Aya gave the box a kick as he rose. The lid came off and slipped with a soft rustle, revealing a glimpse of white. Rice paper, used to wrap precious things... expensive silk, shimmering in a sea of black under the neat layer of near transparent white.

A scattering of rose petals.

A heavy kimono. see NOTES 2)

Hakama, finely striped in black and white.

A beautiful dark blue keku obi.

A black haori of habutae silk, with a white haori-himo, its silken tassels like silver bells. One corner turned over a little to show a flash of deep purple lining with hand-painted wisteria to match his chosen eye colour.

Grass-woven zori with white straps and white tabi to go with them.

A nagajuban of silk gauze, complete with a date-jime of corded white, blue and black silk.

A hadajuban of pale raw silk. An extremely costly understatement for the material was hand woven, extravagant in its simplicity, and would always be covered by the silken layers of the outer garments. Except to the eyes of those who would watch the wearer undress...

No question whether this was ready bought. The hand-sewn seams were almost invisible, artful testimony to the maker of this treasure.

At the bottom of the box lay even a fundoshi of flawless cotton. A slight blush stained Aya's cheeks – whoever had put this together knew what flattered tender skin, and how to wrap subtle messages into the lavish layers of fabric.

That innocent looking box was worth several million yen.

As the silk whispered over Aya's idly browsing hands, a faint gleam touched his gaze, and stiffly, he leaned forward to see where it came from. On the pale fabric of the nagajuban, at the inside of the hem, a tiny embroidery caught his eye. As iki as the rest of the ensemble, it would be known only to the wearer and... Aya refused to think this through as he examined the image, no larger than two thumbnails. It was exquisitely hand-stitched in grey-blue silk, the colour of the autumn sky, and showed an orchid winding around the leg of a crane.

He stared in silence. He had no idea for how long he knelt there, unable to do anything. Frozen until fine tremors begun to run through his protesting muscles. Trying to calm his shaking hands, Aya folded everything back into place as neatly as it had been, his movements deliberately slow as he fought to regain his composure. Then, wrapping his arms around himself, he sunk back to sit on his heels.

Cattleya and crane. Yohji. And he. NO. Yohji and Ran. Ran would have worn this stuff, ridiculously costly, luxuriously understated, highly formal, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Aya wore layers of leather and Teflon vests against the hazards of his job. The aroma of roses and reeds would have suited Ran in its gentleness. Aya stank of blood and waste, and when he had scrubbed the stench of death off his skin, he would smell of pine needles and sandal.

He had not realised just how far he had drifted until another smell mingled with the reeds and roses. Tobacco, booze and shampoo. Yohji. Before Aya could scrape himself together enough to decide whether to skewer him or just run, Yohji wound his arms around him, pinning him in place as he dug his chin into Aya's shoulder. His hair tickled Aya's neck and cheek, and his breath washed softly over Aya's skin. "Happy birthday," he murmured, dangling a card before Aya's nose.

He had gone to the length to have it calligraphed.

_Bara no hana koko wo matage to saki ni keri, _see NOTES 1)

Aya read, his lips moving silently.

Yohji's lips touched his cheek. "Are you cranky?"

He had been seething. Prepared to return the box with some choice remarks about raking around in things that did not concern Yohji in the slightest, to cut him to the quick so he would leave full well alone... for Ran was dead.

"I always... I mean..." Yohji faltered, withdrew one hand and fidgeted – fumbling for his cigarettes, Aya guessed, and swallowed a sigh when a lighter clicked and Yohji tried to wave the first mouthful of smoke away from him. He took a few deep, nervous pulls; Aya did not stir, and finally Yohji could not bear the silence any longer and blurted, "I'd hoped you'd wear it. Once at least."

Without touching the contents of the box again, Aya carefully replaced the lid. "Once?" He had gone to all this outrageous expense so Aya could wear this outfit, if only once? Buying this precious ensemble must have wiped out his savings of half a lifetime... their lifetime with Weiss. He would have been unable to afford it without saving. How long had he been planning on this? Aya managed to suppress a shiver, brought on by waves hot and cold that crashed through him and threatened to wash away his precious cool. NO, he berated himself, Yohji had bought this stuff not for Aya, but for Ran. He hoped to win Ran back if he could get Aya to dress up like this... bring alive memories Aya preferred to stay where he had buried them, close enough to fuel his drive for revenge, deep enough not to cut him to pieces. Yohji was stupid.

Aya gathered the cut strings and managed to knot them back together. "What a waste." His voice was harsh, his tone bitter. He shoved the box towards Yohji and rose to his feet, shaking his companion off. "It won't suit me."

"Everything suits you." And then, so typically mule-headed and somewhat incongruous, "I love you. But if you want, you can always strip naked and stay like this. I'd prefer that." Yohji did not sound funny. He did not even smile as he got up and walked out, leaving Aya alone with his ghosts, his anger and a cloud of smoke.

Behind the bamboo blinds, the day rose unwillingly from the grey dawn. Aya knelt by the window, staring through the gaps between the thin slats into the brightening sky above the awakening city. His hands rested idly in his lap, his back was stiff, his thighs tense from retaining this formal pose unmoving for hours. Down the hall, Ken's door clapped, then he heard Omi laugh and Ken chuckle as they padded into the kitchen to make breakfast. In the living room, the volume of the television got cranked up. Yohji would be grouchy and waspish after nights like that – no sleep, not nearly enough booze, running low on nicotine, and deprived of sex.

It did not matter. Not to Aya who did not feel a dull ache deep in his chest, who did not want to wear the precious garments to remind him of his dead self, who definitely did not long to tell Yohji...

With a soft groan, Aya shook his head and carefully rose to his feet, allowing his sore muscles to adjust and warm up. He slipped his yukata off his shoulders, poured water from the pitcher on his sideboard into the bowl and began to wash, as slowly and thoroughly as everything he did. He half-closed his eyes because they felt grainy from wearing the purple contacts for too long without a break, and because the loofah he scraped over his neck and arms felt strangely sensual, like the gentle touch of rough, scratchy hands. Especially when it tingled over his nipples that promptly hardened. As they would under Yohji's hands, scarred by his own weapon, sliced and healed many times over.

The sliver of a mirror that lay by the bowl showed Aya that a faint blush was rising to his cheeks, and he scowled at his image before flipping the offending looking glass over.

"Can't face it?" a soft voice startled him. Yohji still wore the clothes he had slept in, messy and crinkled, his soft hair looked greasy and dishevelled, and he reeked of sweat and stale smoke. He slouched against the doorframe, with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, face blank. The stance he adopted when assessing a situation and had not yet decided on the next step. "Another year older, Fuji, and still none the wiser?"

Ah, he was back to taunting, though his tone held no smile, not even a smirk. Rather a strange undercurrent... pain? No, he would just be hung over. Aya could handle this much better than the images his mind was trying to shove into his consciousness after roaming around in his nether regions. It only confirmed that he was right to stay well clear, just as he had tried for quite some time now, admittedly with varying success. But if just thinking of Yohji did this to him, he was still way off his self-appointed mark. "Get out, Yohji."

"The hell I will," came the cranky, rather aggressive retort, though it was delivered in the same soft voice.

Oh.

Aya froze, his fingers squeezing the water from the loofah into the bowl. "I cannot accept your gift," he said quietly. "It's too expensive." And it was not for him. "It is your own fault. You should not splash out on such things without checking beforehand whether they'll be welcome."

"Did it hurt?"

Aya's shoulders rose and tightened with tension. Yohji was with him in a couple of longlegged strides; Aya spun around even as Yohji's arms closed about his waist, and he ended up pressed against his partner's warm presence. Bathed in Yohji's muggy aroma of cigarettes and lust and life while he tried to come to his senses and will away the sensations stirring in his rebellious body, and worse, the ones that flooded his mind. The ache in his chest throbbed harder. "You knew it would. You did it on purpose," he accused, bringing up his fists between them. He shoved hard, Yohji tightened his clasp, his eyes darkening as his mouth hardened into a firm line.

"Hai, on fucking purpose. If that's what it takes to bring you back to yourself, I'll even hurt you," he rasped. "And I won't stop until you're-"

He was unprepared for the swift hook of a dainty foot around his ankle, drawing his legs from underneath him even as Aya's fists thwapped against his chest; a mean little trick landing him flat on his back with a hard thump that knocked the air out of him. Calmly, Aya regarded him from above. "I do not want this. I do not need it. You will not hurt me, Kudoh. No one will, ever again."

Yohji's eyes fluttered shut as he fought to regain his breath. He let his arms fall wide by his sides, palms up, and lay still while Aya returned to the sideboard to brush his teeth and clear up his washing utensils. "If you won't keep it, I'll burn the stuff," Yohji declared flatly to Aya's straight back.

He most definitely was nuts. They earned well with Kritiker, but not well enough to burn up millions of yen for a passing fancy.

"You will do no such thing," Aya countered firmly, without missing a beat, "but take it back where you had it made, and ask the shop to sell it for you. It should not be difficult. Then you can replenish your savings. Try to be reasonable for once."

"I'm not known for that."

Aya snorted softly in agreement.

Even in this position, Yohji was capable of finding his damn cigarettes and light one without dropping glowing ash onto his face, Aya noticed irritably. "Stop stinking out my room."

"You didn't mind earlier on."

"Earlier on, I was half asleep, and you needed it." He hated the smug grin that played over Yohji's face and settled in the fine wrinkles around his eyes. "Perhaps I should not let you abuse my goodwill like this."

"Ouch," Yohji mocked, eyes still shut, and took another deep pull. And then, "I do need it now, you know. Real bad." A slight grinding motion of his hips illustrated luridly just what he meant, just in case Aya tried to deliberately miss the point.

Why did he have to blush when Yohji came up with one of his entendres? Yohji was a damn slut after all. Aya felt himself grow even redder, this time with a hefty stab of shame. Yohji gave warmth, and perhaps he was a bit too indiscriminate just whom he gifted with it, but he never did things by halves, and his generosity made Aya feel small and selfish. And jealous. Aya bit his lip to lock in a gasp.

Sprawled like this over the tatami floor, he looked too tempting for his own good. "Get up now," Aya said, softer than intended as he stooped to reach out for Yohji. Long, hard fingers closed round his in a bruising grip. Yohji stilled, smoke drifting in lazy wisps from his nose and parted lips, his face becalmed, almost serene.

"I love you," he said quietly.

To hell with him and his directness. He just knew when to hit low and mean, and he nearly always got through. Aya sank into a crouch by his side and quickly raked his fingers through messy brown locks. "That's what you believe. It's just an illusion, Yohji."

"Then I love that illusion." He brought Aya's hand to his lips for a kiss. "I wanna die with that illusion."

"Nonsense," Aya snapped, and Yohji sensed the tremor running through him. He cracked open one critical green eye.

"Why? You're trying to pull that stunt on me all the time." Aya said nothing but tugged to free his hand. Yohji's grip was unyielding. "You know how that feels, huh? To go into every new job knowing your partner's trying to get his idiotic self killed? The thing you most love on this shitty world is trying to get away from you like this?" He thrust his free arm up and snapped the fingers in front of Aya's nose. "Got you there, Fuji. You damn well know how it feels, huh? I know you do."

"You hate me," Aya said pointedly, wincing in Yohji's clasp.

"Yeah, yeah, blah-di-blah, spare me the shit, will you? Or d'you really think I'm that thick?"

Not in the slightest. On the contrary, Kudoh Yohji was way too lucid for Aya's liking. It scared him no end how easily his shields had been crushed, how quickly Yohji had dismissed all those carefully built defences he presented to others as the real Aya. They worked fine with everyone else, so what was wrong with him now? Oh, well, they had slept with one another in the past, and somehow Yohji had gotten into his head that there should be more to it than just relief.

Yet there was nothing loveable about Fujimiya Aya whose hair was as red as his katana in battle.

Yohji loved an idea. His dream of Ran. And Ran was dead.

Leaving Aya with the impossible task to get this stubborn fool to see the truth for what it was before they both would crack completely. "No, I think you're delusional. Probably a consequence of substance abuse and insomnia, suffered over an extended period of time." He did not mention slutting around. Perhaps Yohji did not deserve being hit below the belt, so Aya decided he wanted to try softer methods first.

Yohji chuckled.

Could he not be serious for once?

"Just what do you want, Yohji?" And why did his voice not sound at all as he had intended – stern and cold – but had this odd... husky quality?

Yohji's other eye slid open, and he regarded Aya with a hooded gaze. "Allow me to love you as you deserve." He flipped onto his stomach and seized Aya's other hand, gathering them in a single grip and reaching up to touch Aya's cheek. Aya stared down at him and saw devotion, warmth, and so much hope it was plain silly.

"Wrong address, Kudoh," he said, trying again to free his hands, but Yohji slithered up to him until he knelt with his thighs to either side of Aya's, his arm slipping round Aya's shoulders and his lips touching Aya's ear.

"You are you. I don't care about names. I told you it's for life, I meant it," he murmured, holding Aya firmly as he tried to twitch away. He drew back a little to seek Aya's gaze. Aya stared at his knees.

"You don't understand shit," he said, longing for this touch to last, for Yohji to leave, for the stillness of his lonely room, for Yohji's energetic presence... too many things that would not match.

"I understand," Yohji said, gently thumbing over the wrists of the captive hands, "that one day, we might not return together from a mission. I understand that our lives are a fucked-up mess. I even know that I'm a slut." A spark of amusement entered his eyes when Aya's glance snapped up at this and immediately hid behind red bangs again. "But," Yohji began to rub soothing circles over Aya's back, "I also know that you've given me my life back. You wanna take that back, huh?"

At this, Aya lifted his head and gaped at him. Yohji did not smile. The spark had gone, instead his eyes held a deep glow that sent spikes of fire through Aya, pooling right down between his legs. Yohji leaned into him, touching his lips in a kiss, sinking his gaze into Aya's as he did so. "Love you," he breathed into Aya's mouth. "Can't help it."

And just when Aya felt his resistance go to hell, Yohji pulled back and released his hands, with an apologetic rub over the reddened wrists. "Aya?"

"Hm."

"Let me..." He drew the box closer and began to fumble single-handedly with the knots, his other hand sliding up Aya's arm and shoulder to weave into his hair, worshipping the wiry strands. "Let me dress you," Yohji murmured hoarsely, his voice heavy with desire.

Wordlessly, Aya lowered his head. Yohji did interpret this as consent. His breath hitched, then he raised Aya's hand to his lips for another kiss and got up, pulling him along. His hands slid from Aya's hair over his cheeks, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of the pale face, then on they roamed down Aya's muscular arms, and up again to splay over his flanks, seeking and finding. Yohji undid the knot of the narrow sash that held the yukata closed and let it fall to the floor. He gathered Aya against himself and eased the garment down his shoulders and over his arms, baring one, then the other. The starched cotton slid off Aya's body and pooled at his feet, leaving him naked in Yohji's arms.

Naked and wanting. As much as Yohji did.

Yohji paused, stroking Aya's back with shivering reluctance, before drawing a deep breath and peeling himself off Aya. He regarded him with a hungry, wistful expression, before kneeling down to retrieve the fundoshi.

"I want to fuck you," Aya's deep voice dripped into his ear, and he nearly fell over as a wave of heat rushed through him and piqued in his crotch. Aya talking dirty was an utterly rare treat. Yohji tried to breathe evenly around the lump that began to fill his throat, but his hands shook as he began to wrap the cloth around Aya's loins. Brushing his palms over the evidence of his wish with every turn until he could hardly think of anything but to take him in and drink him empty right there.

Oh, how would it feel... after such a long time, to wrap his mouth around Aya and suck him off like a candy treat. He sure would not last long – Aya did not do self-relief, no wonder his tempers sometimes seemed to eat him alive – and there would be enough reserves for more for Aya also possessed an uncanny stamina in this department. As in everything else, Yohji mused dazedly as he tucked the ends of the cloth in and blew a kiss onto the bulge in front. How long had Aya been tearing at his hair? It hurt fairly much, and Aya made no sound. As yet. Yohji kissed his way up the faint line of brownish hair to Aya's navel, and drew back to eye his work.

It nearly drove him over the edge to see Aya, in naked glory, clad with nothing but a flimsy cotton rope, his groin bulging, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, his lips drawn between his teeth to shut in any sound. His eyes had misted over and his cheeks shimmered pink. Yohji quickly adjusted the uncomfortable fullness in his jeans, and almost lost it when he realised that Aya was watching him as he watched Aya. Quickly, he dropped to his knees to pull the kimono slip from the box. Aya raised his arms and Yohji slipped the thing over his head, then smoothed it out along the length of his body, feeling every contour, every bone, tendon, and muscle, even his scars, through the whisper-fine fabric. The sleeveless garment of creamy silk made Aya look more vulnerable than his nakedness, his ivory skin a mere shade darker than the snow-pale fabric that provided a stark contrast to the blood-red of his hair.

And as he knelt at Aya's feet and gazed up at him, it struck Yohji that Aya possessed the colours of death – scarlet and white, and darkness within.

Desire and lust went down like a fire doused with water. Yohji reached up for Aya's hands that hung idly by his sides, and pressed them firmly, before taking the nagajuban from the box.

Aya gazed down at the tousled head, and allowed himself a small inward smile at the intent glances he caught now and then when Yohji met his eyes, with a somewhat searching, covered-up expression that he was hiding well behind a flood of warmth. Yohji's warmth. Rich, sweet, overwhelming, all-encompassing. Generously doled out to a multitude.

Aya's face darkened at the sharp pang of jealousy. Yohji's hands were all over him, smoothing, caressing, tugging here and there, tying expertly the ribbons and cords that held the under-kimono in place. Had he taken lessons? To imagine Yohji enlisting at a kimono school, the tall gaijin-like flirt among a gaggle of respectable matrons – Aya gave in to the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. And no, this did not belong to everyone Yohji fucked, as sure as Aya knew the sun would rise and set every day. There were not many sureties like that in his life.

He let slip a sigh of relief when he realised, surprised, that he had come to regard Yohji as one of them.

About to lift the precious kimono from the box, Yohji froze in mid motion, giving him a questioning glance. Was he so keyed in to Aya that he registered the slightest sound? Aya answered with a rare smile, and Yohji's face brightened with a happy grin. Baka, Aya thought, already back to safe and surly. "And what happens when you're done?" he grated out.

Yohji pushed out his lower lip as though pondering an answer, but then he shook his head, a frown darkening his face. "Ravish you?" He clamped down on Aya's hip to hold him in place as he twitched away. "Don't spoil it, Ayan – you don't want this nice stuff to rip, do you?" He got up, raising the black silk kimono that unfolded with a soft swish and rustle, almost like the hiss of the katana as it was drawn. Aya felt goose bumps run over his arms and back. Yohji slid the sleeves of the garment over his arms from behind, carefully smoothed any kinks, and took his time tying the obi.

Impatiently, Aya tried to interfere, but Yohji swatted his hands away. "I said, don't spoil it," he growled without looking up from his work, and finished with a quick slide of his cupped hand over Aya's crotch. It was too immediate, too surprising, and Aya threw back his head with a loud groan even as he steadied himself by clawing into messy brown hair again. It did not help his state of mind and body that Yohji reacted by digging his face into that very place and hummed wildly against that hard piece of flesh. "Damn you, Yo- ahhh, you telling me not to spoil- ah! Yohji! Yohnnngh-"

Yohji withdrew and had another excuse to touch him there because he needed to smooth out more creases. Aya's grip grew really painful, he had strong, hard hands that began to loosen tufts of Yohji's hair. "Patience," he rasped, "you do NOT wanna come in this, Ayan. It's a bitch for cleaning."

"Bastard," Aya gasped, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. "And... uh... don't – call – me – that!"

Oh, he was still fighting tooth and nail, against his heat, against pleasure, against feeling alive, but it was definitely a losing battle. Yohji smiled. Who would have thought dressing Aya up would be as much fun as getting him naked? Though somehow, it seemed to suit stuck-up, straight-laced Aya more, and Yohji only regretted not to have done this earlier. Well, Aya's birthday had provided a welcome excuse, and a purpose too, for even if Aya had been determined to ignore it, he would remember the day now as sure as Yohji was Kudoh the Flirt.

Aya moved somewhat stiffly when Yohji helped him into the hakama, and he had to steady himself holding on to Yohji's shoulders. Tying the sashes of the garment, Yohji thought amusedly how practical it was – the sharp folds hid Aya's embarrassment almost completely. By the wicked glance he shot at Yohji, and the slightly bared teeth, he could read thoughts as well. Dare you to say something, this glance said. Yohji bit his tongue. Today, he did not want to pursue his hobby of pissing Aya off. Instead, he straightened, leaned into Aya and pressed a kiss against his little snarl, flicking his tongue over those immaculate sharp white teeth. Aya tried to pull back, but Yohji cupped the back of his head and held him still as he finished the kiss tenderly.

He could feel Aya panting slightly, he could sense the familiar warring between wanting this so much, wanting to live and enjoy, and his home-made idea of self-punishment. And when he opened his eyes, he stared straight into the purple gaze.

Yohji stepped back, his pulse racing, and gave Aya an all-over. He moved in again to tug and prod and fuss until he was content that everything was arranged as perfectly as he could do this, before placing the haori over Aya's shoulders. Then he knelt down and lifted one of his feet. Aya's hand laced through his hair again, but unlike the lustful grip earlier, the touch was gentle, combing slowly through the tangle of brown strands. "Yohji," Aya said, wistfully. Yohji kissed his toes, one by one, ending his worship of Aya's foot by suckling briefly the smallest toe before slipping on tabi and zori. "Aya," Yohji answered firmly as he treated the other foot to the same kindness.

Yohji picked through the layers of rice paper and brought out a small fan of grey paper, lovingly painted with cranes.

And orchids.

He tucked it into Ran's obi and scooted across to the futon. Aya kept the katana under the long edge of the mattress on his side of the bed. Yohji returned, offering him the sheathed blade with both hands, and for the first time taking in his creation. His dream come true. Aya slipped the katana into the obi as well and regarded him with a mixture of nervous curiosity and embarrassment. Attired in full formal kimono, he looked like someone from a past century, a magic warrior, the wonderful hero of a fairytale of passion and beauty.

Still on his knees, hands now slack in his lap, Yohji stared. Awe, sadness and a nagging feeling of not deserving pulled at his mind. Suddenly, he felt the gap between them like a chasm: Aya – no, Ran – of good family, educated, refined, beautiful, destined to live carefree and one day, inherit wealth and power as it became him, and he – Kudoh Yohji, ex private investigator, resident mind-in-the-gutter, with an education that was at best mediocre, a lineage that could only be called muddled, and a history of dependencies of all kinds. He held no doubt that at some point, this life would be over for Aya and he would reclaim his family's fortune.

So I'll help taking you there, and be content.

"What?" Aya gave him a puzzled look, and Yohji realised he had said the words aloud. "Where are you planning to take me?"

"Where would you like to go?" Yohji asked, recovering his smile that was good at warding off anything from awkward questions to Aya's prodding gaze.

"Don't know. You seemed to have a plan all along," Aya shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

Yohji laughed quietly. "Hai. Let me change – I'll speed up, I promise – and then I'll tell you." He made for the door, and Aya started.

"Yohji! What- hell, what am I supposed to do now? You'll take forever!"

Yohji yanked the door open and swished out before Aya could get him. "Look at yourself in the mirror," he shouted happily as he stalked towards the bathroom, and shortly afterwards Aya could hear him sing, loud and off-key, in the shower.

Aya fumed for a while. Then he glared at the box. When this did not do anything, he reluctantly picked up the shard of a looking glass he had tossed away earlier and did as Yohji had told him.

His eyes widened and he leaned against the sideboard for hold.

For in the looking glass, he saw Ran.

**xxx**

NOTES:

1)

A haiku (short poem 5-7-5) by Issa, 1791

bara no hana koko wo matage to saki ni keri  
thorny wild roses  
"Step over us here!"  
as they bloom

2)

hakama, finely striped in black and white - wide, pleated trousers or skirt. Striped in black and white, they are of the most formal kind.

abeautiful dark blue keku obi - a soft obi of precious fabric for men's formal wear.

ablack haori - wide sleeved jacket similar to a cut off kimono

of habutae silk - a structured fine silk

with a white haori-himo, its silken tassels like silver bells - a braided cord to hold the haori closed over the chest; in white it is suitable for the highest level of formality

one corner turned over a little to show a flash of deep purple lining with hand-painted wisteria to match his chosen eye colour - samurai shunned the ostentatious presentation of wealth through flamboyant clothes in favour of 'iki', i.e. understated chic including haori made of expensive though plain dyed silk but lined with richly painted or otherwise decorated fabric. This also helped to comply with sumptuary laws that were meant to restrict indulgence - so one could still up one's lord by having one's cake and eating it alone...

wisteria to match his chosen eye colour - wisteria is one interpretation of 'fuji'

grass woven zori with white straps and white tabi to go with them - highest formal footwear for men; zori: strap sandals, tabi: split-toe sewn cotton socks

anagajuban of silk gauze, complete with a date-jime of corded white, blue and black silk - here Yohji might have slipped slightly into the ladies' department but hey, it's Aya he's thinking of: an under-kimono and sash

ahadajuban of pale raw silk - kimono shift or slip

a fundoshi of flawless cotton - a loincloth, could be worn wrapped or twisted and then tied into a kind of underpants.

**xxx**


	2. Chapter 2 Wearing It

**Special Gifts II – Wearing It**

Thank you very much for reviewing. Slight change of plan now: this chapter seemed to fit too nicely between the first and the one I had planned next, so here goes.

Cultural notes/terms at the end. Hope you enjoy, and please feel free to point out glaring errors. Perhaps drop me a line if you liked it?

Cheers  
Aabunai

**xxx**

Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-15/M. Shonen-Ai, I'd say, with lime tendencies. And they never watch their language, damn them, though Aya at least should know better. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.

**xxx**

Yohji had managed to get an introduction for one of the best tea houses around, an exclusive place with extortionate prices. It was tucked away amid a few more houses that had retained the flair of the old city, and walking the cobbled alleyway, narrow and shady under the wide eaves, was akin to stepping back in time.

He had even been able to convince Aya to come along with him without telling him where they would go. This left Yohji a bit queasy because it was very much unlike Aya as he knew him, and this would mean trouble. Or stillness.

If he had to choose, Yohji preferred trouble.

He could not help but cast long glances at Aya. In his formal outfit of rustling silk, the katana tucked into his belt and his hand curling lightly around the hilt, he looked like an apparition from another century. Perhaps he did have an idea where they were going after turning into the old streets for he strode ahead, his zori tapping firmly over the stones, and Yohji trailed after him, in a somewhat trance-like state of awe and lust. Dressing Aya up had been good. Dressing him down...

He bit his lip to bite back a moan and reached for his cigarettes. He had made an effort to match Aya's appearance by putting on a beige summer suit, though the starched, immaculately white dress shirt itched his skin in the muggy heat of the summer evening, the trousers felt too tight even for Yohji's taste, and the sharp jacket too much like something Brad Crawford would enjoy wearing. He had drawn the line at donning a tie – the thing was coiled up in his pocket, a loop of dark brown silk to match the suit and his hair. Well, there had to be limits.

Yes, Aya had figured out where they were heading. Yohji was playing high and fast, for he knew that Aya's father had been a valued guest at this select establishment where an evening of classical entertainment cost a fortune, and that in all likelyhood Aya was familiar with the place too. Yet Aya did not let on, his face pale and serene as usual, and this unsettled Yohji more than a fit of temper could have.

The house was two storeys high, with high eaves and a tiled roof, and a willow nodding over the seven-foot wall of hewn stones that presented a blind front to the street. He halted by the tiny door that was the only means to enter this enclosure of secrets, and gave Yohji a glance over the shoulder. He did not even want to guess what favours the whole arrangement might have cost Yohji, or which other means he might have employed.

Yohji decided not to smoke, after all. It did not seem proper, and he felt uncomfortable under this strange, measured gaze, scrutinizing and a little calculating. Yohji pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket but dragged them out again when the door opened and a woman in a plain dark kimono beckoned them inside, bowing and greeting him deferently, acknowledging Aya with even deeper bows and leading them the short path to the entrance of the tea house. Gravel ground under their feet as the outer door was securely locked again. The faint scent of roses laced the heavy evening air, driving away the stink of exhaust fumes, and the soft murmur of water all but blotted out the distant hum of traffic. Bamboo higher than Yohji framed the path, screening out the real world, a stone lantern with a lone candle blinked by the step that led up into the house itself.

Theirs were the only shoes left at the entrance, Yohji noted contentedly as they padded after the mistress of the tea house into the small room he had hired. The paper sliding doors were pulled slightly open to allow a narrow view of a small garden, the source of the scent of roses.

Yohji had hired a couple of pretty geisha too; the whole affair could not have been more traditional and would have cost him a house had he owned one.

Elegant and charming like exotic flowers, the geisha flitted about, seating Aya in front of the calligraphed scroll in the niche opposite the door, and Yohji at the side of the low table, to his right, then the food was brought, left by the threshold where the ladies picked up the elaborately set trays to present them to their guests.

As it was, the women – a maiko in typically flamboyant outfit and a more mature lady in a simply expensive dark kimono – did their best to entertain him and Aya with light banter while serving them, but half way through the ozashiki Yohji began to feel sorry for the girl. For try as she might, Aya remained mute, his eyes firmly on his food, the dainty dishes with rice and pickles, tofu, neatly cut vegetables, fish and other small delicacies, or staring into his tea cup after he had refused even to touch the sake the maiko poured for him.

Yohji took pity, drank and distributed his charm evenly between the two ladies. He did not want to lose his good name with the okasan, and professional pride would forbid the geisha to switch places for the older woman to cope better with their stony guest, but Yohji had no such inhibitions and felt an odd mix of embarrassment, pride, growing lust and rising anger. Aya was being his typical assy self. Instead of enjoying what was possible in their life, he had decided to sulk and mope, spoiling the lot not only for himself, but for Yohji and their pretty company.

He was radiantly beautiful in his formal attire, and hopelessly inept at this. An occasional glare or scowl were all the reactions he deigned to show, he rudely refused to say a word in reply to the girl's banter, until she withered and looked annoyed to tears.

"I think," Yohji said, "my lover here is not in the mood."

That got him daggers and a low snarl. Ah, a reaction after all.

"I wonder whether the okasan-" and Yohji leaned over to the older geisha to whisper theatrically into her ear, "would have the room ready for us?"

A tremor ran through Aya as he froze, his teacup lifted half-way to his lips.

The geisha clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes going round, and faked a coy giggle. The maiko squeaked a little. "He's a good lay," Yohji kept pushing his luck, anger and irritation finally winning through, "you know, really ti-"

Aya set down the cup with a hard clank and got up, his right hand clenching and opening near the hilt of his katana. "I am leaving," he announced in a clipped tone. "You can go fuck Schuldig."

Although the geisha were not letting on, beneath their professional veneer Yohji could spot discomfort. He smiled sweetly and grasped Aya's hand before he could jerk it out of reach. "Come with me, lover, for a word or two before you go."

He dragged Aya along, and to his surprise, the redhead did not struggle. The girl scurried ahead, and the okasan appeared before Yohji and Aya crossed the threshold. "Dozo," she said, all smiles and bows, "this way, please, I hope the room will suit you but of course it's only very modest."

They followed her up the wooden staircase and she knelt to slide back the paper door to their room. It was a pleasant place, no more than five mats wide, intimate without being stuffy. It smelled faintly of ripe grass and wood polish, and even here, on the upper floor, a whiff of roses. The fading light of the late summer evening trickled lazily through the slatted bamboo blinds of the window and slanted beams of melting honey over the silk-edged tatami, pale green contrasting with midnight blue. Specks of dust danced in the warm air, glittering like myriads of tiny diamonds. A futon, covered in crisp white sheets, was the only furnishing, and the pale cream walls were adorned with a single scroll – a calligraphed kanji for beauty.

Aya stayed by the threshold while Yohji assured the okasan that the room was wonderful. As soon as the door slid shut behind them, he rounded on Aya. "Fuck Schuldig, huh?" Aya glared up at Yohji as he pressed his hands flat against the wall to both sides of Aya's shoulders. "You have no reason to bitch at me like this," Yohji snapped. "What about you and Schwarz? What about this ridiculous stuff anyway – I don't do scenes, yanno, let alone dramatic jealousy."

Aya's eyes narrowed and grew dark. "Ee," he said, his voice low and deep, "I noticed."

For a moment, Yohji gaped at him, his tongue sliding over his upper lip before bulging his cheek. He pushed back and lit a cigarette after all, then waved vaguely at the room and shrugged. "Hey, looks like the evening went to hell." He puffed out a stream of smoke and grinned lopsidedly. "Thought it was worth a try."

Aya leaned against the wall. "No, it was not. You wasted your money. You treated me like a whore."

Yohji's mouth fell open, and his green glasses slipped down his nose, allowing him to peer at Aya over the rim of the lenses. For a hearbeat, he said nothing, then he drew in another lungful of smoke and let it curl out through his nostrils. "You'd be a thing of beauty if it weren't for all that venom you keep spewing, Aya."

A shadow ran over Aya's face, but he made no reply.

Yohji smoked in silence while he slowly turned to take in the simple beauty of the room, lingered a little on the scroll, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Yanno," he said quietly over his shoulder, "I never thought I'd care 'bout you hitting and spitting. It never bothered me that much 'cos I knew you were hurting... more than me."

He finished his scrutiny of the room and sought Aya's gaze, but Aya hid behind his red bangs. "Now I hurt." He stepped close and raised his hand to carefully smooth away the tousle of crimson strands. Aya still refused to look at him. Yohji grasped his free hand and pressed it to his chest. "Feel," he commanded, without softness. Aya tried to twist away, but Yohji held him fast, Aya's long fingers clawing into his chest over the pulse of his heart.

He gave up and lifted his head to meet Yohji's green gaze. "It won't work," he said calmly. "You and I are too different. I have no time for this."

"I do."

"You've been trying to buy me back tonight," Aya accused, his tone cool, his eyes unreadable. "And you insulted me down there but I am not in the mood to create a scandal. It is not my idea of fun, and it would embarrass the ochaya and whoever trusted you enough to introduce you here."

Yohji opened his mouth to protest, but Aya shook his head. "You treated me like a toy. I am no one's toy. I will pay for the things you bought for me, and you will take the money and put it back into your account." Meaning he would have to borrow the funds and accept extra missions to repay the debt for months to come. Aya had no savings. Aya had for a long time been paying medical bills for his sister.

Yohji let go of Aya's hand and took a step back, ruffling through his hair in exasperation. "I won't!"

"I'll make you," Aya hissed softly.

Yohji possessed enough wisdom not to ask how that would happen. Instead, he growled, "Hell, Aya, whatever I do seems fuckin' wrong. What is it you want? I know plenty of things you don't want... can't you give me a friggin' break and tell me what's up?"

"I did, but you refused to listen." Slowly, Aya's voice rose in pitch and heat, and a glimmer entered his eyes. "In fact, I told you often enough. I do not appreciate you going out to fuck someone else, for whatever shoddy reason. And if I sound like a stupid jealous faggot, then that's what I fucking am, to hell with it all!"

Aya swearing like a sailor and actually losing his precious cool as he finally let slip the obvious, and Yohji snagged it after all. Stupid, he berated himself as a wave of guilt and grief overwhelmed him, oh so stupid... He caught his breath and forced his mouth to work. "I thought... man, Aya, you never said... when we got together first, it didn't seem to matter, now did it... it was... well, comfort... ne?"

Nervously, he stubbed out the cigarette and stuffed it back into the packet, his appetite for nicotine gone. Stupid. Every word made it worse; he could see the latent heat in Aya's eyes rise in a flame of pain and betrayal. How could he have been so utterly stupid. He had declared his affection for Aya but not thought of this. It should have been him ending all this playing about, and a damn long time ago. No wonder Aya would not trust him, and how could Yohji even begin to explain?

Knocked into silence for once, he dropped to his knees and scooted across to Aya to wrap his arms round his legs and dig his face into the silken folds of the hakama. "I'm such an idiot, Ayan," he murmured.

Aya did not shift, not speak, but leaned back against the wall and looked down at the tousled head that pressed against his thighs. He could feel Yohji's breathing warm and sharp through the stiff fabric and imagined the pulsing of the vein at his neck, the heartbeat of life, of lust and pleasure and love. He drew a slow, deep breath. "And I was never good at sharing, Yohji."

Yohji just stayed put. Aya waited, but he would not move. Trying to wait Aya out. Aya tensed. "Yohji," he said wistfully, "I don't want you on your knees like this."

Yohji shuddered, then shifted, and Aya saw a glint of green peer up at him. "Oh? But I thought..."

Aya groaned. "With your dick, as always! Exactly what I mean: it's not gonna work; I'd only try to cut you down one day."

"You had a pretty good go at that already," Yohji commented glibly from his warm, snug place.

Aya hated Yohji being glib. He tried to shake him off one leg, but only succeeded in lodging him closer to something very warm and completely ignorant of jealousy and long-term plans. "Yesss," he hissed, resentful at having to grab Yohji's shoulders to push him back because that meant he had to touch him, feel muscles shift beneath the fine woollen fabric of the jacket as Yohji only clamped harder around his legs. Had to feel him.

"I can change," Yohji said, and this time he did not sound smug. "I will."

"And Schuldig?" Aya snapped, kicking at Yohji. His foot would have landed in Yohji's middle had it not been caught by one lightning-fast hard hand that merely slipped off the zori and began to massage his flesh. Too good to pull away, Aya decided, angry at his own weakness while he was watching Yohji's fingers press and knead his foot, amber skin contrasting warmly with pale white.

"Yes, Schuldig." Yohji looked up at him now, seeking, holding his gaze, questioning. "What did he do to you, Ayan?"

Aya's face went blank, his eyes still and flat. "Nothing."

"You did not look like nothing when I picked you up. How about some honesty on your part, hm?" Yohji set down Aya's foot and reached for the other one that was willingly granted and rewarded with the same treatment. "He told me a few things..."

Aya's eyes blazed briefly, then shuttered again. "Whatever... it won't work for us, Yotan. He sought me out, told me they had you. Told me he'd show me what was happening, what they were going to do to you. He kept his promise, and when he was done, I realised what I felt. I tried to cut it away because I couldn't stand it. Because it would destroy what I've become, what I must be so I can complete my only task in this life. They only watched, and did what I asked them to do. Until I was blank inside, and still."

"And full of nightmares, you idiot," Yohji murmured, his hand tightening on Aya's foot with bruising force. Aya winced, and Yohji quickly loosened his grip.

Aya gave him a hard, measuring stare. "You only returned to fulfil an obligation. I assume they told you a heap of lies, too. It was logical. That's why this is wrong. We cannot afford to be led so easily."

"I was already on my way back, Ayan," Yohji declared softly, "when Omi got hold of me, god knows how, and said they needed me to fetch you 'cos Schwarz wouldn't talk to anyone else. I was on the train from the airport when the mobile rang."

Aya's eyes went wide, then suddenly closed and he sagged a little.

"Couldn't stand it any longer, Aya," Yohji went on. "I was coming home for you."

**xxx**

**NOTES:**

ozashiki – (formal) tea party with geisha  
okasan – proprietor ('mother') of the tea house  
ochaya – tea house; money is not enough to buy time at a good one, an introduction to the okasan by an existing and valued customer is essential; they are the classic place for high-powered business deals and political engineering  
maiko – apprentice geisha

**xxx**


	3. Chapter 3 Dressing Down

**Special Gifts III – Dressing Down**

I will post a spicier version of this chapter elsewhere (AFF) in the next few days – feeling too tired for that now.

Thank you for reviewing, and please let me know whether you find anything to pick on or something you particularly liked. I love your feedback. For one of my other stories, someone was actually brave enough to make suggestions for improvement, and they worked well.

Cheers  
Aabunai

**xxx**

Warnings/Disclaimer: NC-15/M. Shonen-Ai, I'd say, with lime tendencies. And they never watch their language, damn them, though Aya at least should know better. Don't own, though I regret that. I'd love to own them all. All rights with their original creators.

**xxx**

"You were returning…" Aya's voice faded, and a shiver ran through him as his eyes fixed on Yohji who held his gaze calmly.

"There was no point pretending anymore." Yohji rose to his feet and let his hands dangle by his sides.

Relaxed, easy, not in the slightest selfconscious, Aya thought with a wild pang of envy, no wonder he could hit on whoever he fancied and get away with it. "Pretending?"

"That there was nothing beyond us working together."

"There cannot be anything else," Aya snapped, his heart picking up speed. "I would like to go home now." He made to side-step Yohji, but his partner blocked his path, standing squarely between Aya and the door.

"Fine, you keep telling yourself that one," Yohji said, still in this level tone, "and then wonder whether it would change anything. Whether I could dump you and not care, for all the shit you're giving me all the time. I think that's your giveaway, Ayan, 'cos neither Ken nor the lad get the same abuse from you." He looked the tiniest bit sly now, but also wary and nervous. "So either you really hate my guts, in which case I'd wonder why the hell you're here now, or-"

"Shut up, Kudoh," Aya cut in, his voice strangled.

"And that you'd run to Schwarz 'cos they told you a bale of shit 'bout holding me hostage… man, Aya, who're you trying to kid?" He paused, his hands clenching and opening lightly, and then he shook his head. "You think I'm not afraid? Everyone I ever loved is gone, and it's not as if I could even blame someone else."

Aya stared at him. Shadows had gathered on Yohji's face and seeped into his eyes, the spark of mirth that usually made them glitter had gone out and left them dark, almost angry. Right, that was Yohji, instead of resigning and just walking away, he would harness his frustration to gather fresh strength and fight on. It dawned on Aya that perhaps, it would not be so easy to get rid of Yohji after all, now that he had this illusion in his stubborn head.

An illusion of love.

A dream of life.

The life they could have lived.

"Schuldig," Yohji murmured, and his green gaze fluttered, then broke away as he turned and wandered across to the window to peer outside. "He's odd. Could have zapped me off but chose not to press his advantage. At least," a shrug, "he's got red hair too. Reminded me of you. Only that he's a natural."

Aya felt himself splash red with anger but was unable to ignore the bait. "You have seen that much then, have you?"

"Ah, I nearly forgot." Yohji slapped his forehead and walked back, right up to Aya to glower down at him. "You ARE one jealous faggot, aren't you?"

Aya froze. Silence began to fill the small space between them, spread and thickened. Yohji, grimly determined, waited. If Aya had wanted to murder him, he would have been floored by now. Whatever – he did not care anymore.

"Hai." A tiny word, leaving Aya's parted lips under his breath, shattered the stillness even as he pushed past Yohji.

Yohji caught him with his hand about to slide back the door. "And there you almost had me convinced," he murmured, moulding himself against Aya's back, "you'd not give a damn about me."

Aya leaned his forehead against the flimsy wooden framework. "What a load of shit," he whispered unwillingly and could feel Yohji's body vibrate against him in quiet laughter.

"Now, that's better," Yohji said, dropping his tone to a sultry murmur. "Though I think I'll never get used to you swearing."

Aya tried to shove him back a bit, but Yohji remained plastered to him. "You sound like my-" He broke off, his hand on the door frame clenching, knuckles white. Yohji's hands alighted on his waist, slipped up his flanks and wound around his shoulders. Yohji nudged him until he turned, closing his eyes and swallowing the sigh that was thickening in his throat.

"That's because," a soft touch of warm lips to his cheek, "I love you."

Yohji was warm. Yohji was also hard, and when Aya sagged against him, his embrace tightened so much it squeezed the air out of Aya who reached up and clawed into a handful of brown hair. "Uh, let me breathe," he gasped, pressing his other hand against Yohji's chest. "So what's your plan, huh?"

Panting slightly, Yohji blinked. "Plan? Ah, that one… uh, I mean…" He reached between them to fiddle with Aya's hakama ties, but Aya quickly grabbed his wrists and stilled them. He sought Yohji's gaze. He met longing, the expectant glow of passion, along with a good helping of insecurity. Yohji had laid himself bare as much as he had stripped Aya of his shields.

Time to make this literal.

Aya pushed out of his embrace, never taking his eyes off Yohji. "You didn't have one?" Yohji had not known, had not presumed, not taken him for granted. He was rattled now, Aya could tell from the expression of distress that crossed his face, though he held himself rather well, refraining from fidgeting. Instincts honed by years in their job, so much they had become part of their selves. Irreversible, deadly, dark hunters.

"I had no plan. Only hopes," Yohji replied quietly.

"Care to explain?"

Now he looked puzzled. "Nani?"

"Go on," Aya said, lifting one long-fingered hand to play with the cord that held the haori closed over his chest. A dark little smile tugged at his lips as he watched Yohji's gaze drop to stare at Aya's fingers. "Tell me what you hoped to do with me tonight."

Yohji felt his knees go weak. This would never do. "Why not just let me show you?" He made to move towards Aya, but was stopped short by a lightly lifted hand.

"Stay where you are, Yotan." Aya scrutinised him, and suddenly Yohji did not feel comfortable. "You talk, and for each sentence that makes me happy, one piece of your outfit goes down." He paused, his eyes glittered. "I'll match you piece by piece…"

Aya... was playing? And why, Yohji mused uneasily, was this not quite what he had wanted, what made him tingle and tense now other than want and need? Aya's voice had a distinct edge, something that forstalled any questions, forbade any disagreement. A challenge, perhaps, a test of some kind? Yohji disliked the idea of being a test bunny, even if Aya – or rather, he admitted to himself, because Aya was in charge now. Aya had hurt him a few times in the past, and Yohji remembered too well that his partner had left him in no doubt as to who ruled and who had to run along. Yohji had marks to show for reminders that while Aya had no compunction in taking his moods out on Yohji's golden hide, Yohji found it difficult to fight him off at full force.

Yet to lie with Aya, caress the pale body, hot and willing in his arms, sense him relax when he allowed Yohji to soothe away grief and anger for a blissful while, was too much of a temptation, a dangerous affair that drew Yohji like a fly to a honeypot. Well, he had come unstuck quite a few times already and managed to regain his balance... He swallowed. "It's not quite fair," he managed to point out, despite the fact that the temperature in the small room seemed to rise rather sharply, bringing a sheen of sweat to his face, but he already shrugged off his jacket.

"Oh?" Aya pushed out his lower lip while he artlessly dropped the haori. "Now, Yohji, you meant to say something to me?"

"You're swathed in those damn layers," Yohji choked out, his eyes glued to Aya's hands while his hands scooted to the neatly buttoned collar of his shirt, fumbling to open it. He ended up hastily ripping open the buttons, all the way down. "Makes me mad to think what's underneath, yanno… and that my ass is gonna be naked and you're still gonna be wearing something…"

"One," Aya said, a spark in his eyes as he tugged the knot of the hakama bands open. "And two." He let the sashes drop. Yohji tore off the shirt and flung it into a corner, then made a step towards Aya, but Aya tilted his head.

"Don't spoil it," he warned.

Yohji grunted with frustration.

"That," Aya remarked dryly, "was not good enough. It has to be a sentence at least, Yotan."

The gleam in his eyes, hidden behind violent contact lenses, held no warmth, and his smile teetered on the edge of a small sneer, if only just. Instead of lust and happiness, Yohji felt a burning inside his chest, something unclean and marred by foreboding, and his voice was heavy and rough when he said, "What is it to be, Ayan? Want me under you, huh? Writhin' and begging?" He loosened the belt and unbuttoned his trousers, the zip swished down and he let the garment drop.

"Two," Aya smiled, carelessly untying his obi.

"Argh, c'mon, Ayan, that doesn't count either," Yohji tried to protest, but Aya's glance silenced him while he tried to gather his wits.

So he sat down and pulled off his shoes and socks. No, he had not managed to reach deeply enough into Aya's mind to bring back Ran. He had failed, all along, and not been willing to accept it. A shiver ran through him, raising goosebumps on his skin. He heard the swish of crisp fabric and caught the sight of the hakama pooling around Aya's feet.

"You don't talk to me anymore, Yotan," Aya said, stepping out of the flood of silk. "But I am feeling rather horny, so I have decided to be generous." He bent to drag off the tabi, then straightened and looked down at Yohji who leaned back against the wall. One hand on the tatami floor, the other cradling one shoe and sock in his lap, he met Aya's gaze.

Three layers of white silk still shrouded Aya's muscular body, and the precious cloth flowed over him like a waterfall, moving, whispering, caressing with every ripple of breath, every small motion. White and crimson, in the starkly beautiful setting of the tatami room, Aya might have stepped out of a ghostly tale of starcrossed love. "I don't know what else to say," Yohji murmured, deflated by the crude words. He had meant to make this evening sweet for Aya, for Ran, but Aya seemed intent on keeping it base, in spite of his outward decorum. Lust flared through Yohji when he imagined them doing it quick and rough, but his mind chilled. THAT he could have elsewhere, and perhaps better than with Aya.

Without the obi, the kimono fell open when Aya sunk to a crouch before Yohji and pressed his thighs apart to he could sit closer, his knees touching Yohji's warm and firm middle. His hands, those hard, cool hands, roamed up Yohji's flanks, grabbed his face and shook him slightly. "Yotan, you're not with me."

Yohji held the purple gaze while with his free hand he picked through his discarded clothes, found the cigarettes, and put one into his mouth. He lit up and blew smoke at Aya. "I am, Ayan. You want to fuck me – go ahead. You want control – you have it. Perhaps I can't make you happy. Perhaps I AM just some deluded fool. The shame isn't mine." Another puff of smoke. "The lube's in my jacket pocket."

Aya's face hardened, and then Yohji saw him shatter.

Aya dragged him up on his lap, wound his arms around Yohji in a crushing embrace and dug his face into the crook of Yohji's neck. He was trembling madly, and for a while, Yohji could make no sense of the whispers that kept pouring from Aya's mouth, breathless little gasps, scraps of words, pleas, a singsong of fear and nerves strung as tautly as Omi's crossbow. "Need, Yohji," Aya breathed, "need you to trust me... the way I was... I'm now... cannot change, mustn't change, you're trying to break me down, you're so close, so very close, please, let me be, let me do what I have to... Ran wouldn't be able to do it... please... trust..."

It rushed at Yohji like a train and almost knocked him out. Aya as much as begged him to let off but hold on, to Yohji having the power to undermine him, to unhinge and distract him from what he had considered his only purpose in life.

Aya was losing track of his goal because he had come to live again.

"Yohji?" Aya stilled, his lips moving against Yohji's neck. Tasting salt and aftershave. He gave another small lick and felt Yohji flinch and twitch a little. "Tickles?"

Yohji finished the cigarette, blowing a long stream of smoke past Aya as he rested his chin on one silk-clad shoulder and let his eyes drift shut. "Yes," he said, giving himself over to the sudden calm inside his mind. He had shaken Aya. Aya had admitted this.

"You still want me?" Yohji murmured.

"Never stopped," Aya replied quietly, his arms tightening a bit more around Yohji's waist.

"Then you have me." Yohji leaned down to kiss the top of a red head, and when Aya buried his face in Yohji's shoulder, the back of his white neck. "So who's gonna fetch the lube, huh?"

And Aya began to laugh, a deep, low rumbling sound that rose from his stomach to his throat, shaking him even as he began to kiss Yohji senseless.

Who, around a hot tongue jabbing down his throat, still managed to sneak in something that sounded like "Hahy buhday, lovahhhh..."

**xxx**

**The End**


End file.
